


If we are patient with our lives

by ColinFilth



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Missions, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Routine, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 12:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7171985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColinFilth/pseuds/ColinFilth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Harry Fucking Hart, spy, tailor, soon-to-be senior citizen, gets as hard for Eggsy whether he’s in a tuxedo and received pronunciation or wearing trackies and his natural cockney, kisses Eggsy’s hair when it’s greasy after a tedious week-long mission and Eggsy’s toes when he’s ran ten kilometres on the estate, knows how to say </i>I love you<i> in twenty-seven languages and dialects but only ever means it in one.</i></p><p>A week in the life of Eggsy Unwin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If we are patient with our lives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meetingyourmaker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetingyourmaker/gifts).



> So last week was [Maia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/meetingyourmaker)'s birthday, and I offered to write a ficlet. She asked for Hartwin fluff, "just appreciating the little things or domestic stuff". Then my brain poked me in the shoulder and said, _Allie, you can't write ficlets_. So there you go, Maia, have 6K of what is hopefully fluff. Happy birthday! 
> 
> Title from Dorianne Laux's _Music in the Morning_. I am putting the whole poem in the end notes because the Hartwin-specific butterflies in my heart fluttered when I read it.
> 
> Also in the end notes is a trigger warning regarding a small plot point, but it is also a spoiler, so proceed as needed.

On Sunday afternoons, Eggsy does his laundry.

He washes and dries everything that doesn’t go straight to the dry cleaner, which is less and less every day; then puts on the telly and irons what needs to be ironed while watching shite shows with JB nosing at his legs, namely the array of shirts he wears under his suits that didn’t get bloodied up or singed or covered in weird goop.

One Sunday afternoon, he looks up from the shirt he is currently ironing at the telly, looks back down, and registers that the shirt isn’t his.

“I’ve ironed your shirt,” he tells Harry.

“Thank you, dear,” Harry says absently.

He doesn’t even look up from his computer. Eggsy steps closer and gingerly sets the folded shirt on the desk, trading it for Harry’s tumbler of scotch and taking a long, long drink.

“Why have I ironed your shirt?” Eggsy asks, slowly.

“Perhaps because you’ve washed it?” Harry tells him, extending his hand to get his glass back.

“Yeah,” Eggsy says. “Alright.”

-

On Monday mornings, there’s the general meeting at the round table, to discuss past, current and upcoming assignments and for Merlin to nag them about not breaking every bloody piece of tech he gives them.

Before that, though, there’s breakfast at home, which is Harry’s house, and when exactly did Harry’s house become home?

Point is, Eggsy comes down after his shower to find a steaming cup of tea already clouded with milk and fixed with two teaspoons of sugar, and two pieces of toast with butter and marmalade. Harry is sitting at the small breakfast table with his own cuppa and a bowl of lowered sugar porridge, reading something on his tablet and listening to the BBC World Service on the radio.

Eggsy sits down and stares at Harry.

“Eat your breakfast,” Harry tells him.

Eggsy eats his breakfast.

-

On Tuesdays, Eggsy can usually be found in the middle of a mission. This is one such Tuesday - he needs to figure out if the guy who’s been dealing near Vauxhall is handing out more than just a bit of green.

He’d offered Merlin to pose as a potential buyer, and Merlin had taken one long, hard look at him and handed him a pile of flyers and a green tee-shirt.

“Ma’am, help us save the planet,” Eggsy exclaims at a passing woman. She doesn’t even glance at him. “Still don’t see how this is any better than just buying some shite off the bloke and asking if he’s got something else,” he mutters.

“Because there’s no budget for  _ Galahad gets high on the company’s dime _ ,” Merlin tells him. “No one is paying attention to you, this is perfect. Anything new?”

Eggsy whips around to accost a passerby, getting a better view of the target, sitting on a bench drinking a Frappuccino.

“Nothing. Maybe I should ask him if he cares about the planet?”

“He’ll get annoyed and leave,” Merlin says. “Focus, Galahad.”

Gritting his teeth, Eggsy walks towards a gaggle of schoolboys and smiles, brandishing his flyers. They flee as soon as he opens his mouth. On the bench, the dealer sips at his vanilla slurry. 

“He’s waiting for something,” Eggsy mumbles. “There ain’t anything left in there, he’s just slurping air.”

As if on cue, an older man sits on the bench next to him. Scratch that, not  _ older _ , just old. Eggsy groans. He’s about to go harass the tourists staring at their cells when the grandad takes a map out of his pocket and leans towards the dealer, opening his map with shaky hands and pointing at something.

“You clocking this, Merlin?” Eggsy says, faking a yawn behind his flyers. With narrowed eyes, he looks at the dealer slip something out of his pocket and tuck it seamlessly under the map. Grandad nods and folds down the map before getting up and walking away. “ _ Fuck  _ that was smooth.”

“Looks like an envelope,” Merlin mutters. “Galahad, we need the envelope.”

Eggsy strides towards the old man. The map has been tucked in the outer pocket of his coat, and Eggsy catches his elbow, shoves his flyers under his nose, and grabs the map between index and middle finger.

“Sir, only you can help us save the planet,” he tells him brightly.

Grandad stares at him, mutters something rude, shakes Eggsy’s grip off (the sudden movement allows Eggsy to slip both map and envelope out of the man’s pocket undetected) and stalks away hurriedly.

“Could be coke, or payment,” Eggsy mutters, tucking himself inside a phone booth under the pretense of rearranging his stack of flyers. He opens the envelope quickly. “Oh, fuck shit hell.”

Inside the envelope is the picture of a little girl, no older than six, with skin the colour of cinnamon and a cheap princess dress.

“You don’t think he was just giving his da some pictures of the grandkids?” Eggsy asks shakily. The little girl is smiling, a big, happy smile. She’s missing one of her baby teeth.

Merlin doesn’t say anything.

“I’m going in,” Eggsy spits out.

As slowly as he can, he walks back towards the bench. Their dealer is still there, nursing his Frappuccino.

“Hey mate, you green?” Eggsy asks, smile wide, flyers at the ready. When the target’s face crunches up in annoyance, he softens his smile. “Or maybe you got some green for me, yeah? Fuck the earth, mate, this job is shite, no one cares. Could use something to take the edge off.” He mimes bringing a joint to his lips, playing the wide-eyed hippie. The dealer snorts.

“How much?”

“Like, twenty quid,” Eggsy shrugs. “S’it good stuff?”

“Yeah, yeah.” The man nods and gets up. “Meet me under the bridge near the tube in ten, yeah?”

Eggsy nods and turns to leave. Out the corner of his eye, he sees the man get up and walk away, leaving his cup on the bench.  _ Of fucking course _ .

As promised, Eggsy only lingers under the bridge for a few minutes before the man shows up, shoving a small nugget of saran wrap into Eggsy’s hand, under the flyers the dealer is pretending to be interested into. Eggsy slips him two crumpled up tenners.

“Prime shite,” the dealer says. “You want my number? I don’t do Vauxhall usually.”

“Yeah, sure,” Eggsy answers. He lets the bloke punch his number in Eggsy’s Kingsman-issued cell and claps the man’s shoulder in thanks once he’s done. “Put a tracker on his jacket,” Eggsy mutters for Merlin once the man has walked away. He checks the little packet he slipped in his pocket. “Fucker gave me hash. Stingy with it, too, there’s more wrap than hash. He gave me his digits, he’s probably new to the business. Maybe a small time dealer who decided to go pro.”

“Keep your phone in your pocket, Galahad,” Merlin instructs. “I want his prints. Be careful with the map, too, the buyer’s might be on it. Report to HQ immediately.”

There’s only four tube stops to the shop, but it feels like forever until Eggsy’s out on the street, down the lift, inside the shuttle and finally at Merlin’s desk, taking off his green cap and taking the pair of gloves Merlin offers him to deliver the map, the envelope, and his cell.

“Psych appointment in fifteen minutes, Galahad,” Merlin tells him. “I’ll take the hash, too.”

Eggsy groans but leaves the stinky little nugget with him before stalking towards the medical aisle.

If he stops to think for a second he’ll see the girl, the pink frills surrounding her, the shine of her eyes.

-

On Wednesday Eggsy wakes up with Harry on the other side of the bed. He hadn’t heard him come home last night - after two gruelling hours with Kingsman’s therapist he’d gone to Harry’s house, drank four fingers of Harry’s best scotch, and faceplanted on the bed.

Harry is asleep, on his side with one hand tucked under the pillow and the other outstretched as if placed there for Eggsy to fold his fingers around it and kiss Harry’s fingertips, so he does. They don’t cuddle; apparently spies don’t do well with being held down while they sleep.

Eggsy gets up, has a piss, looks at himself in the mirror for a long time, and goes to take JB out and make breakfast.

When Harry comes down in his robe, there’s a cup of tea for him and a bowl of porridge. He mumbles his thanks and Eggsy raises his toast in cheers. They’re quiet through breakfast and their morning routines, which is why it comes as a shock when Harry looks at him in the shuttle to HQ and says,

“We’re pulling you off the dealer mission, Galahad.” Eggsy’s head whips up. “Following your psychological evaluation and due to the turn it has taken, we have decided the mission will be passed on to Kay,” he continues before Eggsy can protest.

“With all due respect, Arthur, sir, why the fuck is that?”

“This is nothing personal, Galahad,” Harry says.

“Feels pretty fucking personal, sir,” Eggsy needles on, “can’t give the pothead missions about drugs?”

“No. We can’t give a survivor missions pertaining to child abuse, especially when said agent has a sister just a few years younger at home.”

Ah, well. Shit.

Part of Eggsy wants to fight, to assure Harry -  _ Arthur -  _ he’ll be able to complete the mission without letting his feelings overcome him, that he doesn’t need to be coddled. The other part thinks of the little girl in the picture, and of Daisy, safe and sound at home.

“Understood, sir.”

“You are still to report to the psychologist today at eleven hundred hours, following your debriefing.”

When they exit the shuttle, Harry lays a hand on his shoulder and kisses his cheek.

“I’ll see you tonight, darling.”

-

On Thursday afternoons, after work, Eggsy takes care of his sister. He lets himself in the house that is technically his, kisses his mum hello and goodbye in the same breath as she bustles out of the house to go to work. She’s only part-time, for now, but doing something is doing her good.

The house is quiet save for JB’s panting next to Eggsy’s feet. Daisy is sitting on the rug in the living room, working on a colouring book. Eggsy walks towards her silently, but sure enough, she picks up on  _ something _ , maybe the vibrations on the wooden floors, and turns to face him and laugh-gurgle happily. It’s a lovely, involuntary sound, one that she doesn’t realise she’s making and that no one has shamed her into trying to stop.

“Hey, babes,” Eggsy tells her anyway, falling on his knees next to her and leaning in close. He waves his hand at her and she waves back. The doctors have told them she’s picking up on signing quickly enough, but Eggsy had her fitted for a cochlear implant as soon as possible. “Let’s put your ears on, yeah?” he tells her, gesturing at his own ears. She nods.

Eggsy puts the implants on. Sometimes she takes them out, when she gets annoyed by the noise or wants to play.

“Hey, babes,” he repeats, and this time, she smiles.

“Heya.”

All things considered she doesn’t have much of a deaf accent - the speech therapist says she probably won’t have one if they stay consistent with the sessions. They’re still working on her signing, just in case. Eggsy took it up pretty quick, but his mum has some difficulties.

Harry already knew how to sign. Of course he did.

“You want some lunch?” Eggsy asks her, speaking and signing. She nods, and leads him into the kitchen.

“Make mushy peas, please,” she asks. “With toast.”

Eggsy makes mushy peas, with toast.

They spend the afternoon making their way through Daisy’s colouring book, and when Eggsy gets home that evening his fingers are covered in marker ink.

Harry is there already, sipping a tumbler of whiskey in his study. Eggsy steals it from him and swallows a good mouthful.

“Any news from Kay?” he asks with forced casualness, handing Harry his glass back.

“No more than this morning,” Harry replies with a  _ look _ , one that means  _ don’t push it _ .

Eggsy doesn’t push it.

-

Fridays are usually spent training or on a mission. This Friday, Eggsy leaves at the crack of dawn for Birmingham, where an actual laundering company has been dabbling in money laundering. He gets dressed quietly while Harry is still sleeping, brushes a kiss to his forehead, and takes a Kingsman cab to Victoria.

On the train he goes over the file on his tablet: slip in the headquarters with the cleaning staff, do a terrible job cleaning, get Merlin online, get fired, home in time for lunch and a nap.

He gets there a little before six, when his shift is supposed to start, smokes a cigarette and fiddles on his personal cellphone for fifteen minutes, and waltzes in reeking of smoke with his shirt rumpled and missing the uniform’s trousers. The head of cleaning personnel gives him a half-hearted speech about punctuality and a roll of bin liners, and Eggsy scoffs and drags his feet down the corridor.

“Don’t be  _ too _ memorable, Galahad,” Merlin warns him.

The company is small - half a floor of the five-story building - and Eggsy makes his way through the bins quickly, feeling a smidge guilty when he lets a few balled-up tissues fall on the floor and leaves them here. He’s trying to get fired on his first day, but can’t help feeling a bit shit about giving the actual cleaners more work to do.

Once in the accountant’s office he plugs in the little flash drive Merlin had given him and lets the man work his magic, putting the rubbish in a separate bag that he’ll keep with him, just in case there’s something of interest in the crumpled-up paper. He puts a bug on the underside of the desk swiftly when he goes to hoist himself up. Nothing more: Kingsman isn’t interested in the company itself, more in who they are laundering money for. Still, just in case, he places another bug in the big boss’ office while he collects his rubbish, and one in the loo.

“All good, Galahad. Retrieve the drive and make your exit,” Merlin instructs.

Eggsy slips back in the accountant’s office to get the flash drive back under the pretense of calling a mate, namely Harry.

“Bruv, this is fucking  _ shite _ ,” he whines in the phone.

“Hello, Galahad,” Harry says smoothly. “Everything is going well, as I understand?”

“Yeah, well you ain’t having to clean some posh toff’s rubbish for seven quid an hour,” Eggsy snorts. “I’m fucking done.”

“Would you pick up some milk on your way back?” Harry asks him. “I finished the last of it this morning and I am afraid I neglected to buy more during the last shop.”

Something warm blooms in Eggsy’s chest, and he pushes himself up and off the floor where he’d been sitting next to the desk, pulling the flash drive from the computer in one quick movement.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, “but I don’t fucking care, they can all toss off.”

Eggsy says the last bit as he’s rounding a corner, looking up to meet the head of the cleaning staff standing there with his arms crossed. They have confirmation that the security cameras are running and watched at all times - how else would the bloke know Eggsy hasn’t been doing his job?

“Gotta go, bruv, my boss is here.”

“And I you,” Harry says warmly, and Eggsy hangs up.

The bloke screams at Eggsy about doing his job, Eggsy screams back, and leaves in a huff with both bin liners in his hand. He lets the useless ones drop on the floor on his way out and gives the man a two-fingered salute.

All in all, a mission well done.

-

On Saturday Eggsy takes the shift at the shop and spends five hours  _ actually _ being a tailor for a change. He has lunch with Roxy in the dining room, and after closing up the shop the remainder of his afternoon is spent in the library doing research for a mission next week.

When he gets home around five, Harry isn’t here yet, so Eggsy rolls himself a tight little joint and smokes it in Harry’s study, laying supine on the floor in front of the open balcony, letting the smoke curl around him and make the room fuzzy and pinkish. He feels floaty and relaxed after smoking half his spliff, so he sets it in one of Harry’s ridiculous crystal ashtrays and lets the ember die down, closing his eyes.

Everything feels very distant, but he still hears Harry come home. It seems to take him forever to climb the stairs and join Eggsy in the study.

“Hey,” he tells him, turning his head sideways to look at Harry. It makes everything spin madly, so he closes his eyes again.

With a stifled grunt, Harry sits down next to him. Almost immediately, Eggsy feels a long-fingered hand brush over his forehead before burying itself in his hair, gently stroking. He makes a little noise of appreciation in the back of his throat and shuffles closer to Harry, wriggling on the wooden floors.

“Kiss me,” Eggsy mumbles. He means it as a request, but it comes out sounding small and imperious.

Harry kisses him, once, his mouth soft and wet against Eggsy’s dry one.

“Any updates?” he asks, blinking up at Harry. His eyelids feel incredibly heavy.

“The girl is fine,” Harry says gently. “Apparently our dealer intended on blackmailing the man you saw, and nothing more. You were right, he used to deal for a biggest cartel and got greedy. We’ll be keeping tabs on both him and his previous associates.” Harry swallows. “He pulled the picture from the Internet. She lives in Louisiana with three brothers. She’s sixteen now. She’s fine,” he repeats.

Eggsy nods, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.

“The old bloke?”

“One point seven terabytes of incriminating evidence on his computer,” Harry tells him, his tone neutral, his pace unhurried. “His name has been passed to the relevant authorities.”

Eggsy breathes out.

Later that night he orders pizza and eats two thirds of it with his feet up on Harry’s lap on the sofa, and refrains from touching Harry’s hair with his greasy fingers when Harry leans in and kisses his neck, his collarbones. Eggsy feels lazy and boneless, spreading his legs for Harry nonetheless and letting himself be kissed and held and cherished.

-

On Sunday morning Eggsy wakes up facing the wall. He stretches and turns around to face Harry. He’s awake, his eyes half-lidded, focused on Eggsy. He probably woke him up just by moving around on the mattress. Spies have light sleep; once Harry woke him up in the middle of the night just by making one loud snore.

“Morning,” Eggsy tells him sleepily.

“Good morning, Eggsy,” Harry answers. He leans in to kiss him, and Eggsy turns his head to bury his face in his pillow.

“Morning breath,” he mumbles.

“I don’t care about that,” Harry says, and he noses his way into Eggsy’s pillow to kiss him, once on the corner of his mouth and then a second time, fully on his lips. Eggsy lets him. It’s foul, but it’s  _ Harry _ .

His cock is a bit morning-stiff against his leg, and fattens happily when Harry presses closer, pushing him on his back. The tip of his fingers touch Eggsy’s hip. The touch is ticklish for a second, then just plainly nice, the slow slide of Harry’s warm hand under his tee shirt and up his torso feeling electric, the press of his thumb against a nipple sending a brief shock of arousal down to his bollocks. Eggsy sighs against Harry’s lips and takes Harry’s wrist to push his hand lower, over his belly and under the waistband of his shorts. Harry gives a little hum.

“You’re awfully bossy this morning,” he remarks.

Eggsy doesn’t answer, just tilts his hips into the touch and moans approvingly when Harry’s fingers curl around his cock. He wanks him off nice and slow, his lips pressing tender little kisses to Eggsy’s cheek, his jaw, his neck.

“Would you like a suckjob?” Harry asks against his Adam’s apple, his voice sleep-rough but not  _ only _ , his tone light, like he’s offering for his own benefit and not Eggsy’s. His grip tightens a little on his Eggsy’s cock.

“Yeah,” Eggsy breathes. “Yeah, fuck, alright.”

Harry gives him one long, almost thankful kiss before pulling away. Eggsy scrambles to pull his shorts down, leaving them around one of his ankles and spreading his legs. Harry settles between his thighs, dragging the flat of his palms up the hairy skin and setting them on either side of Eggsy’s cock, framing it between his broad hands. He leans down and presses a kiss to the root of his prick, right above Eggsy’s bollocks. It’s almost reverent, what with the way he takes a deep whiff through his nose.

“I love how you smell,” he tells Eggsy, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Eggsy’s cock as he speaks, the  _ m _ a hint of a kiss. Eggsy shudders.

“Probably got sweaty morning bollocks.”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Harry says, and God, he’s a freak. He’s a fucking freak, fit posh bloke with pretty dead bugs in the loo and five different kinds of marmalade in the cupboard, who enjoys giving head more than getting it and makes Eggsy breakfast every morning he’s able to, who finds brogues too flashy but sees nothing wrong with emblazoned cashmere slippers; Harry Fucking Hart, spy, tailor, soon-to-be senior citizen, gets as hard for Eggsy whether he’s in a tuxedo and received pronunciation or wearing trackies and his natural cockney, kisses Eggsy’s hair when it’s greasy after a tedious week-long mission and Eggsy’s toes when he’s ran ten kilometres on the estate, knows how to say  _ I love you  _ in twenty-seven languages and dialects but only ever means it in one.

Eggsy shuts both his brain and Harry’s ridiculous mouth up in the best way he knows, grips the base of his cock and directs it inside, pushes between Harry’s lips with a jerk of his hips.

Immediately it’s too much, because Harry is not one for subtlety - he goes at it like he’s been starved for cock, sucks Eggsy in with his cheeks hollowed and a furrow of concentration at his brow. His hands are two large weights pressing down on Eggsy’s hips, cradling the shape of his obliques and keeping him from moving too much at first. Harry’s never been one for denial, never forbid Eggsy to fuck his mouth or to touch himself or to come, quite the contrary, always provided his fingers and his mouth and his arse and the soft inside of his thighs and  _ anything  _ for Eggsy to pleasure himself with, with a sumptuous sort of delighted enthusiasm and contentment that made Eggsy shoot in seconds the first time he pushed his prick up Harry’s arse, a front-row seat to seeing the expression of pure bliss and ecstasy on Harry’s face as Eggsy took his pleasure in him.

If his boyfriend is gagging to literally gag on his cock, Eggsy’s not going to complain.

Harry’s mouth is hot and wet around him, the tight slide of it up and down his cock as unbearably soft as the finest velvet. Within minutes Harry is drooling out the corner of his mouth, making everything filthily noisy as he sucks Eggsy in down to the root of his cock then pulls back up slowly, dragging his tongue over his cockhead. Eggsy’s fists make a ruin of the sheets, grabbing for purchase anywhere he can - anywhere but Harry’s hair, not yet.

He knows it when Harry finally relents and lets him take the reigns, his hands sliding from Eggsy’s hips down to his arse and pushing up, just enough to make Eggsy slide his thighs over Harry’s shoulders. Then Eggsy breathes, breathes, breathes, heart hammering  madly in his chest and in his bollocks; and twists his hips to feed his cock into Harry’s mouth, fucking in and out with a deep grunt every time he feels Harry’s throat close around the head of his prick.

“You wanna swallow?” Eggsy asks him, because he’s close, can feel it in every tensed muscle and in the urgent pressure behind his balls. Harry nods around,  _ on _ his cock, head bobbing down.

“Anytime, pet,” Harry tells him after pulling off with a wet sound, his voice rough but unhurried, like he could do this all day, like he’d enjoy nothing more.

And oh, that’s an idea, spending all day with his prick ensconced in the warmth of Harry’s mouth. Eggsy’s not entirely sure who would be at the mercy of whom in this scenario.

He comes thinking about it and looking down at Harry’s blissed-out face, jerks into his mouth in fast, stuttering jolts as Harry swallows around him, milking his orgasm from him until Eggsy’s sitting right on the fence between pleasantly and unpleasantly oversensitive.

Afterwards Eggsy catches his breath and strokes the salt-and-pepper hair at Harry’s temples where he’s laid his head down on Eggsy’s belly. Harry’s shoulders are moving up and down as he breathes, deeply and regularly. He turns his head and presses a kiss to a mole on Eggsy’s torso.

“Breakfast?” he asks, and Eggsy drags him up to kiss him.

Harry makes him breakfast while he showers, fluffy scrambled eggs and rashers, mushrooms and tomatoes and pan-fried bread. When Eggsy comes down Harry abandons his pot of baked beans to take him in his arms and kiss the crook of his neck, a long, sucking kiss that leaves Eggsy feeling like the bubbling pot of beans forgotten on the stove. Harry kisses him with the same fervor whether he’s sweaty or clean, breathes in the smell of him whether it’s musk or soap, and always looks at him afterwards like he’s just a bit drunk off the way Eggsy smells.

They have breakfast sitting across from each other at the dining room table, ankles touching and sticky fingers meeting over the toast rack, quiet and comfortable. Afterwards, while Eggsy is clearing the table, Harry presses him up against it and kisses him again, tasting like tea and tomatoes, until he’s half-hard in his pyjamas and rocking his hips minutely against Harry’s thigh.

“I gotta put the plates to soak,” Eggsy mumbles against Harry’s lips, the cutlery and crockery scraping loudly against each other when he loses focus and his grip on their plates falters because Harry just grabbed his arse. “Harry, please…”

Eggsy isn’t exactly sure why he’s asking for Harry’s mercy, or for what, but he gives in a split second later, drops the plates back on the table and turns himself fully into Harry’s embrace, winding his arms around Harry’s neck and tilting his head to the side to kiss him proper, running his tongue over Harry’s bottom lip then sucking it into his mouth, biting on it before looking up at Harry.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he tells him in one breath, aiming for playful and sounding small and painfully earnest, rubbing his erection against Harry. “Let’s go back to bed, yeah?”

“ _ Mm _ . No,” Harry says after another kiss, crowding Eggsy into the table and pushing him up. Eggsy goes easily, dazed, sitting on the wooden monstrosity of a dining room table that fills up most of the room. “Right here,” he adds, “stay right here…”

Harry sucks his cock again, hungry and slow, while Eggsy moans and breathes with breadcrumbs in his hair from where he’s laying down on the table. It’s ridiculous, something out of the fanciest sort of porn, Harry’s polite, filthy mouth on him and the tablecloth bunching up under his back, the teapot right next to Eggsy’s face when he blinks hazily without really seeing anything.

He does end up taking Harry back to bed to fuck him properly, gives him three lube-coated fingers before giving him his cock, sticky from Harry’s mouth and frankly obscene amounts of precome. His hands are shaking in anticipation, enough that putting the johnny on is a feat, the latex slippery between his fingers, so Harry does it for him in a few deft movements, pulling his cock two, three times teasingly before Eggsy bats his hand away and positions himself. He watches, transfixed, the slow slide of his prick inside Harry’s arse, his mouth dry and his abs tensed, Harry’s delighted low hum of approval when Eggsy pushes in ringing loud in his ear.

It feels  _ too _ good, that first push, every time. Eggsy almost can’t believe he gets to have this, a man who cooks him breakfast and sucks his cock almost in the same breath, who knows every last thing about him and still spreads both legs and arms for him, who changed Eggsy’s life and let Eggsy inside his in exchange.

“Good?” he asks Harry, pulling almost all the way out and then in again, rubbing a hand up Harry’s belly to thumb at his nipple. Harry nods, slow and lazy, grunting as Eggsy fucks his cock in and out of him in short, puppyish jerks. “S’good for you, yeah?”

“ _ Oh _ , dear,” Harry tells him, arching his back, bringing one leg up around Eggsy and the other tangling with Eggsy’s. His hand snakes between their bellies to grab his cock, holding it in a loose fist. “Very good.”

Eggsy gives him one long, messy kiss before leaning up on his outstretched arms, hands on either side of Harry’s head, leaving Harry enough space between them to wank himself off, his strokes picking up speed when Eggsy finds a good angle and keeps at it, driving into Harry faster and faster.

“Gonna come,” he warns, and Harry is gone enough that he makes a displeased sound in the back of his throat. “I’ll keep fucking you, Harry, okay? Promise,” he groans, feeling his bollocks tighten. “ _ Harry _ .”

Shuddering, eyes tightly shut, Eggsy spills inside the condom, grinding into Harry’s arse. When he opens his eyes, Harry is staring up at him and stripping his cock rapidly, his lips half-open and shiny with spit, simply begging to be kissed. He moans against Eggsy’s lips, working his hips to fuck himself on Eggsy’s cock.

It feels strange, fucking Harry after he’s come, when his cock is spent and his entire body oversensitized from his orgasm; but at the same time it’s a marvel: Eggsy can feel everything more acutely, the tight grip of Harry’s arse on his prick, the warm and slick goodness of it, the wetness of his spunk in the condom, Harry’s heaving breathing on his face and the jerk of his fist between their bodies.

“Please come soon,” he tells Harry tightly, because it  _ is _ a bit uncomfortable, and he’s  gone half-hard already, his cock protesting against the ongoing stimulation when it wants to be soft and spent. Eggsy bats Harry’s hand off his prick and replaces it with his own, thumbing at the glans on the upstroke. “There we go, Harry, you gonna come for me, yeah?” Eggsy changes his angle. Harry makes a unhappy noise, so he shifts his hips again, his rhythm faltering.

“Perfect,” Harry says then, eyes wide open but unseeing, tilting his arse into it. “Bloody hell, Eggsy…”

His words trail off into nothing but deep grunting and Eggsy smiles at him benevolently. He schools the expression of discomfort off his face when Harry comes, going tight around him, and fucks him through his orgasm. As soon as Harry’s body goes limp, though, he pulls out slowly, pressing a kiss to Harry’s lips before wobbling to the bathroom.

Eggsy disposes of the condom and has a piss, cleaning his cock thoroughly afterwards. When he returns to the bedroom, he runs into Harry making his way to the loo, and stops him for a quick kiss and a grope of his arse.

“No more today,” he calls out towards the loo as he pulls a pillow out of its case. “I’m washing the sheets.”

Harry just laughs in return.

While everything is in the wash Eggsy makes them lunch, rice and salmon fillets he finds in Harry’s freezer and adds way too much pepper to. Afterwards he makes Harry scrub the dishes from breakfast before putting them in the dishwasher -  _ Penance _ , Harry says, and Eggsy smacks his arse again, just because.

On Sunday afternoons, after lunch, Harry shines his shoes, gets a little wooden box filled with polish and rags out on in the hall and sits on the stairs to do it, with the kitchen radio tuned to BBC Radio 4 with the sound up so Harry hears it from the entryway. It used to drive Eggsy bonkers, to trip on Harry’s oxfords or even his legs as he made his way up or down the stairs, to have to tug a polish-coated rag out of JB’s grasp, to be making tea with the radio way too loud. He’d asked why Harry wouldn’t do it in the kitchen, or in the parlor, anywhere but sitting on the stairs; why he wouldn’t take the radio with him so Eggsy wouldn’t have to have this week’s drama episode blaring in his ears.

Nowadays he hardly even notices it. He polishes off yesterday’s spliff in Harry’s study, listening to the hum of the washer and the faraway sounds of the radio, to the clicking of JB’s claws on the wooden floors behind the doors as he looks for Eggsy before taking off in search of Harry instead. After a few minutes that stretch out in the smoke over Eggsy’s prone body, there’s a knock on the door.

“Are you smoking in there?”

“Who’s asking?” Eggsy calls back, fiddling with his lighter. “Police?”

“I’m taking your bloody dog out,” Harry answers after a pause, presumably to roll his eyes.

There’s a few good drags left, but Eggsy leaves the joint in the ashtray and closes his eyes, smiling dopily at the ceiling.

“Love you,” he yells.

“And I you,” Harry says, muffled behind the door.

Footsteps, then, the indistinct low sounds of Harry talking to JB and the opening and closing of a door downstairs. Eggsy sighs contentedly. It’s a nice day out, sunrays streaming in through the large balcony window Eggsy had opened wide in front of him. A light breeze keeps the air light and comfortable; somewhere in the quiet mews a dog barks, JB, probably. Eggsy wriggles and stretches languidly on the floor.

He might have fallen asleep. He’s not too sure. But Harry and JB’s walk goes surprisingly fast - at some point Eggsy hears the door opening downstairs, then later Harry’s footsteps up the stairs. Behind him the study door opens and closes soundlessly.

“I love you,” he mumbles.

A floorboard creaking, sixty centimetres at his seven o’clock. The smell of Harry’s cologne, cardamom-vanilla-cedarwood-white musk-man-trust-comfort-love-home, the scent of it making the loo butterflies fly madly in their cage in his chest.

“We got you one of those preposterous macaron frappes from Paul,” Harry tells him, placing a cold cup in Eggsy’s hand. He hums his thanks, fiddling with the straw before taking a long sip, moaning gratefully at the taste of pistachio. “May I?” Harry asks, and Eggsy nods, frappe spilling out the corner of his mouth and running down into his neck in a thin rivulet. He laughs. Next to him the hissing and crackling of paper catching fire, the sucking sound of Harry breathing in the smoke, then the low, low whisper of his exhale.

They sit quietly. The washer is louder now, the load soon to be finished. Harry places the joint against his lips after a bit, letting him have the last of it, ever the gentleman, his politeness extending even to proper weed-smoking etiquette. Eggsy swings into a sitting position to pull on it before putting it out in the ashtray. He turns to Harry and just  _ stares _ , taking in Harry’s half-lidded, soft eyes, the gentle little curve of his mouth, his loose shoulders and his long, long legs stretched out in front of him. Eggsy follows the line of them with his mouth dry and half-open as Harry steals a long sip of his frappe. When Eggsy leans in to kiss him his lips are cold and soft, slow against Eggsy’s. Somewhere very far away, the washer beeps.

“I have to put this in the dryer,” Eggsy murmurs. On his thigh, Harry has settled one of his big hands, the heat of it like a brand. “I said no more today.” Harry gives him a long, deliberate blink. “You’re the fucking worst, Harry,” he groans, pushing himself up, bending down to pull Harry up too, then to collect his drink.

When he returns from the laundry room, though, he lets himself inside Harry’s study again and then into Harry’s lap for a half hour of quality snogging.

Afterwards, Eggsy collects his laundry, and carries the hamper down to the drawing room. He settles in front of the television and puts on the crappiest telly he can find, plugs in the iron and lays the first shirt he grabs on the ironing board.

It’s Harry’s.

Eggsy irons it anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> _When I think of the years he drank, the scars_   
>  _on his chin, his thinning hair, his eye that still weeps_   
>  _decades after the blow, my knees weaken with gratitude_   
>  _for whatever kept him safe, whatever stopped_   
>  _the glass from cracking and shearing something vital,_   
>  _the fist from lowering, exploding an artery, pressing_   
>  _the clot of blood toward the back of his brain._   
>  _Now, he sits calmly on the couch, reading,_   
>  _refusing to wear the glasses I bought him,_   
>  _holding the open book at arm's length from his chest._   
>  _Behind him the windows are smoky with mist_   
>  _and the tile floor is pushing its night chill_   
>  _up through the bare soles of his feet. I like to think_   
>  _he survived in order to find me, in order_   
>  _to arrive here, sober, tired from a long night_   
>  _of tongues and hands and thighs, music_   
>  _on the radio, coffee-- so he could look up and see me,_   
>  _standing in the kitchen in his torn t-shirt,_   
>  _the hem of it brushing my knees, but I know_   
>  _it's only luck that brought him here, luck_   
>  _and a love that had nothing to do with me,_   
>  _except that this is what we sometimes get if we live_   
>  _long enough, if we are patient with our lives._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- Dorianne Laux, "Music in the Morning", in _Facts about the Moon_ , 2007.  
>   
> \--
> 
> Aforementioned warning: there is a plot point regarding vague suspicions that a target might be involved in human trafficking, especially the sale of a small girl. Absolutely nothing graphic is said about it. These suspicions are revealed to be false, and the girl is safe and sound on the other side of the planet.


End file.
